


There Should be a Trophy

by laliquey



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Cooking, Friendship/Love, Gen, Manicures & Pedicures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Kim gets fired by the Kettlemans, Jimmy does what he can with the limited resources in his office & the salon to cheer her up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Should be a Trophy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)

Jimmy's gut tells him this many salon lights on this late is risky, but why is that? Is it realistic to think someone driving by might roar into the parking lot expecting a late-night acrylic fill?

Actually, with his luck Ms. Nguyen would drive by, storm in, and scold him for using her stuff. But Kim's here and she probably wouldn't do that in front of her.

On second thought, she might beat his ass in front of Kim just to show off. That's the kind of day it's been. Week, really. Okay, year, but tonight is about Kim. There shouldn't be a penalty for losing clients like the Kettlemans; there should be a trophy, and the only cornfield she belongs in is an actual cornfield, in gingham with an eye-matching backdrop of blue sky.

The only upfront help he can offer tonight is a pedicure and the distraction of his patent charm. The unseen help is up to Mike now, and isn't it weird as hell to be in cahoots with the sticker troll? He'd seemed faintly tickled to be asked, as if the assignment flexed some dormant muscle reluctantly unused. So much weird shit's been happening so fast lately...

"Brace yourself to get cheered up in a major way," he says. Kim gets seated and rolls up the cuffs of her I-don't-give-a-shit jeans, a true tip-off to how bad her day was. "While you await your nail technician, we invite you to enjoy our magical something-or-other foot bath." He tears open a little packet of crystals and sprinkles it in the bubbling water.

Her bare feet dip in. "Mm. So magical."

"You know what color you want?"

"I don't care. You pick."

"Okay." The racked rows of polish are like a rainbow army of chess pawns. "Hey, maybe we could try a checkerboard-type thing."

"Seems pretty advanced. You really think you should get that fancy?"

"Well, I thought alternating colors would distract from my lack of actual skill."

"Knock yourself out."

"Okay. We're fresh outta Hamlindigo but I think we can find something that suits you better. That's not a metaphor, by the way. Okay, maybe it is."

He settles on Deep Orchid and Tequila Sunset, a rods and cones pummeling as pretty as anything. While Kim soaks up the soak he lines up all his tools and is pretty proud of himself - he paid attention in recent days and is fairly sure he's doing it right. Foot bath, pat dry, pumice, nail clip, orange stick, cream, base coat, color. Possession may or may not be nine tenths of the law but he feels he's approaching nine tenths of pedi-competence, here.

He breezes through the steps and paints one toenail purple, its neighbor orange, then realizes that he should do all the purple first and then all the orange. Kim doesn't criticize his method, but at the end she says, "Mm. That doesn't clash at all."

"You are correct, my lady, because there is no such thing as a color clash. Any combination makes sense to the enlightened, widened eye."

"Thank God that philosophy doesn't extend to your wardrobe."

"Yeah, well. Until I land a whale I gotta keep it simple. Twenty five outfits from three easy pieces."

"You sound like a magazine."

Her stomach gurgles a weird upward sound. "You sound hungry."

"I could eat, I guess. Are the little Fritos bags still in the back?"

"Yes, but those are empty calories and enough sodium to choke something not easily choked by salt. This is a spa, right? I can make you a salad."

"Serious?"

"Ye of little faith. Of course I'm serious."

"Huh," she says. "I have to see this."

She heel-walks behind him to the little fridge, a strange hybrid size in-between dorm fridge and normal. Inside are remnants of the ladies' takeout lunches, crusty condiments, and a crisper drawer loaded with cucumbers. He washes up and peels artful stripes off a big one, then slices it into quarters, then smaller still. A dressing melds while he cuts a second - soy sauce, rice vinegar, and a pinch of sugar from a coffee shop packet, and the whole thing comes together in less than three minutes.

The handiest serving vehicles are a chipped pair of Balloon Festival mugs, and Kim finds that the simplicity transcends the ingredients. "Wow. This is really good."

Jimmy lifts his own plastic fork in agreement. "Good for you, too. Cucumbers are very hydrating and full of vitamins."

"Did you read that in one of the salon magazines?"

"I may have," he admits. "But they're also mostly water and won't cut it if you're lumberjack-type hungry. Ya'want me to make ya a grilled cheese?"

The salad's enough, but part of her just wants to see how he'll turn one out in this grim setting. Maybe he's got a hot plate now. "Yeah, okay."

"Coming right up." Provisions are taken from the fridge - fake butter spray and cheese, and he gets a clean towel and box of hair foils from the wire shelves. He heads to his office and produces an iron from the almost nonexistent closet, then bread that's hidden in a file drawer.

"Ya'want chiles?"

"Um, okay. A few."

He preheats the iron and disappears to the fridge for a moment. "A spoonful of the vaunted Hatch Autumn Roast for the lady," he says, and smears it on the bread with a spoon. Once the sandwich is constructed, he whips hair foils out of the box like Kleenex and wraps it with care. He folds the towel, tops it with the sandwich and iron, then sinks into his chair with regal triumph. "You know, the iron's weight almost makes it like a panini. Pretty fancy, huh?" They stare at the silver package as they wait, Kim with a cool undercurrent of giddiness and Jimmy with confidence; he flips it over, re-positions the iron, and they wait some more.

"It seriously smells like it's cooking in a pan on the stove."

"Well, I kinda know what I'm doing. In some areas, anyway."

When it's the correct degree of done, he unwraps it on a thin paper plate and halves it with a plastic knife. It cuts with a toasty golden crunch. "You know those three-packs of plastic silverware you get with takeout sometimes? I never use the knives and I've got a million of 'em. So this is great."

"Are you making one for yourself?"

"Yeah, I think I might."

"Then have the other half of mine while it cooks," she says, and they both take a crunchy bite at the same time.

"You like it?" Jimmy asks.

"Mm." It's melty and hot and _so good._ "Uh huh."

"Nice amount of kick?"

"Just right." She chews thoughtfully and looks at him hard. In the undertow of her own goings-on she hasn't thought enough about him lately. How the hell is he going to handle the mess with the Kettlemans? HHM at least has the buffer of administration and other people to look busy or absorb blame. He shouldn't have to deal with that trainwreck by himself. "So I can't say that I miss them, but if you want to unload the Kettlemans back on us I'm sure Howard could figure something out."

He can't meet her eyes and mutters a vague, "Yeah, well, I'll see what I can do."

She probably shouldn't have said it and changes the subject before either of them starts thinking too much on their recurring theme of how one's always up while the other's down. He wants this, right? She should be happy for him, right? "You're a good cook," she says brightly. "Talk about making something out of nothing."

"You..." Jimmy pauses to chase a runaway chili. "...have no idea. Something out of nothing's the ongoing saga of my life."

It's frustrating how the _something_ keeps eluding him, though. He recalls the lament of teachers all his life - _Jimmy could be more like Chuck if only he applied himself,_ but he's applied the hell out of himself lately and hardly raked in a proportional payoff. Every setback makes him downgrade his expectations but it doesn't seem to matter; it's all on a downhill sliding scale of shit. Could it be payback for all the times he coasted through situations and relationships he didn't deserve to? Kim's somehow stuck with him through far more than she should have. He's always wondered how long that will last.

He knows the melancholy's on his face and corrects it immediately. She's the one that needs cheering up, here. Fucking Kettlemans...

A text blips in his periphery.

"This might be that whale that's gonna get me my big wardrobe upgrade," he jokes, and the message is one precious word from Mike.

 

**_ DONE. _ **

 

Jimmy dampens the joy pressing at his ribcage and Kim's up to her smile lines in crisp golden goodness and doesn't ask. This is it. The hardest part's over and everything's going to be fine. Like, as of tomorrow. "Hey, have you ever tried toaster oven Chateaubriand?"

"Not yet. Why? Did you get yourself a toaster oven?"

He downplays his optimism and feels a little bit like the world is his oyster - hell, he could probably turn out a respectable Oysters Rockefeller while he was at it. "No. Well...not yet." He's smiling and can't stop and she knows him way too goddamn well.

"Jimmy, look at me. What was that on your phone just now?"

"That? It was, ah, nothing. Wrong number."

She's unconvinced. "What the hell are you up to?"

"Making the world's most clever grilled cheese, obviously."

"Jimmy-" They've been here a million times before; she's not going to let it go.

"Okay, something. Nothing. I don't know." She's pretty in this light. In every light, actually. "You'll see."

"I want a hint."

He gives her a lopsided, smug smile he's got every right to wear. "In less than twenty four hours I predict we'll be back here with champagne."

"Oh, God."

Yeah, champagne. And it won't be that André crap they used to get smashed on in the old days. Tomorrow they'll be drinking the good stuff.

And they'll be calling the Kettlemans the Settlemans.


End file.
